Spotlight

Lets admit it. The world is far from perfect. Nobody believes in magic anymore. Or gods. Or vampires. Hope itself is on the endangered list. Especially in New York City. Despite this there is a place in Manhattan where the impossible not only exists but bellies up to the bar to drink its fill. Owned by a leprechaun, staffed by gods and mortals it is a second home to the legends of our day, led there by the simple magic of the rainbow. The name of the place is Bulfinche’s Pub. One never knows what will come in the door next: Armageddon or a man with no socks. Whatever happens two things are certain. Hope and Happiness never die and the first drink is always on the house.

The staff and patrons of Bulfinche’s Pub speak out on Tales From Bulfinche’s Pub"A MASTERPIECE. THE MUST READ OF THE YEAR." - Murphy's Mom."EXHILARATING AND BEAUTIFUL. HILARIOUS AND TOUCHING. And those were just the parts with me in it. Beats the Iliad and the Odyssey hands down." -HERCULES, god hero, bouncer at Bulfinche’s Pub."I COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN. Murphy glued it to my hand." -ROY G. BIV, paraplegic clown, patron."PLACES FOURTH ON MY LIST AFTER WINE, WOMEN AND SONG." -DIONYSUS, god of wine, woman and song. Bartender at Bulfinche’s Pub."WORTH ITS WEIGHT IN GOLD, AT LEAST IN PAPERBACK."-PADDY MORAN, leprechaun. Owner and proprietor of Bulfinche's Pub"DEVILISHLY CLEVER." -MATHEW, angel on the lam, dishwasher.

Excerpt

The mist followed him in, hot on his heels. Behind him, the first rays of sunrise started to bathe the Manhattan skyline in a warm, orange, luminescent lather. The haze on the city outside was slowly being eaten away by the lazy nibbles of the morning light.

A black trenchcoat draped his gaunt frame. From the company I kept, I knew that could be trouble. White skin and a look of desperation were drawn tight over high cheek bones. The face as a whole was as pale as the moon in twilight, yet his eyes almost glowed a deep crimson. The fact that they were bloodshot didn’t hurt the effect. Straight black hair adorned the top of his head. It was grimy, unkempt, and made his skin appear even paler by contrast.

His two legs carried him into the bar easily enough, but then rebelled, forcing him to drop to one knee on the hardwood floor. The man began to tremble like a leaf caught in a hurricane. His eye lids were fluttering like the wings of a humming bird, and he appeared to be having trouble focusing his vision. The signs were easily recognizable. Bulfinche’s newest visitor was a junkie.

“Help me,” he begged, his raspy voice barely audible.

“What do you need?” I asked, not yet recognizing his particular addiction.

“A drink,” he said simply. He had come to the right place; with no false modesty, we had the best stocked pub anywhere. Still, the pale man didn’t look like someone going through the DT’s.

“Name it. We have anything you could ask for,” I said confidently, helping him off the floor and into a chair. The man moved oddly, almost lurching, as if he wasn’t used to carrying his own body weight.
He decided to put me to the test.

“Blood,” he blurted out, shame shining sorrowfully in his red eyes. He waited for an outward reaction from me. When it never came, he added, “In a dirty glass.”

Odd request, but I’ve had odder. What could I do? I had said anything. Taking a sharp knife from behind the bar, I made a small incision over the vein in my left wrist. The draining blood filled two shot glasses before I shut off the tap. I put them and a third, this one of vodka, into a beer mug. Adding a twist of lime, I stirred it with a celery stick. I always said the morning shift would bleed me dry, but this was ridiculous. After sterilizing the cut with whiskey and bandaging my wrist, I poured a glass of O.J. for myself. I brought both glasses to the table and joined the man to make a toast.

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